


The Superwholock Games

by OhCaptain2015



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I don't know what's coming, I really don't though, I'm Sorry, M/M, So many ships, haha - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhCaptain2015/pseuds/OhCaptain2015
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>24 of our favorite characters are shoved into the unmentionable Hunger Games, the 22nd Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Mycroft Holmes sat in his best suit, a black tie knotted to his neck, his fingers folded over his knee. Today was a special day, just as it had been since the moment he turned twelve. The Holmes' family was notorious for doing surprisingly well in the Games, both Siger Holmes and Violet Holmes were previous District 1 winners. It was both a scandal and a blessing when the romance of Victor and Mentor Siger and Victor Violet was announced. The second Violet's pregnancy of Mycroft was announced - Panem was watching. The child had to be brilliant; he would do amazingly in the Hunger Games.  


But at 17, Mycroft Holmes had yet to participate. His name had never been chosen, and he always volunteered _just_ slowly enough as so that he wasn't the quickest one. But this year Violet insisted - he must compete. His younger brother had been banished to District 3, not abandoning his royal lifestyle, but Violet and Siger virtually forgot about and disowned him. Their only hope to continue their Victor lineage was Mycroft.  


He shifted in his seat, moving his fingers to his face to fold them in front his mouth. He had to admit - he missed Sherlock. It was difficult not being able to hear from his younger brother. District 3 and District 1 had little to no overlap, especially with 3 being viewed as 'rebellious' and 1 being the Capitol's golden child. Of course, Mycroft had always kind of expected Sherlock's banishment. Sherlock was a 'wild child,' experimentative and curious and always so _loud_. When he had blown up the left wing of the factory that he worked in, no one was surprised. When his punishment was being banished to District 3, Mycroft was only surprised that it wasn't District 11 or 12.  


"Mycroft, dear, are you quite ready?" Violet Holmes asked as she entered Mycroft's room. Her hair was done up in a loose updo, a black and red dress swishing and swirling around her feet. Mycroft had always liked that dress. It was silky, and he could remember as a child running around and protecting it from Sherlock. Sherlock would rather have used it as a flag for his makeshift pirate ships.  


"Yes, mother," Mycroft stood immediately as if on autopilot. He moved as fluidly as the belts at the factory. No, he wasn't actually ready or really even okay. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fight. All of this was far too over his head. Sherlock would have made a much better Holmes family heir, at least when it came to the Games. He always knew that. But sending Sherlock out there to fight on the Holmes family's behalf was no longer an option. It hadn't been one for far too many years. "How much longer until the Reaping begins?"  


"Don't call it that, dear," Violet said, stopping Mycroft just above the top of the staircase. She turned him towards her, straightening his tie. She looked him directly in the eyes and kissed him on the cheek. "That's not it's proper name, Mycroft." She spoke softer now. She knew what was awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs - and if the press were to hear her son talk like a District 12, they would be hounding the Holmes' for weeks.  


"Right." Mycroft rolled his eyes, consciously shaking his arms at his sides to loosen them out. He was too tense, too nervous, he was representing District 1 for god's sake! He should be proud. But he couldn't force pride, not even home town pride. "Because 'Lottery' is such a good, accurate name for it. We're so _lucky_ to be chosen, to fight in the name of the Capitol."  


"That's right," Violet said with a firm nod. "Now, be a dear and recite that for the cameras and your Sponsors during the Games will be incredibly generous; I guarantee you."  


Mycroft held his tongue. He had a lot to say, a lot to complain about, but whether he liked it or not, he was about to go to battle for his District, and he had to be a Victor. That would be his one way of not dying, of going on to survive another day. If he did so, he could come home. Get bathed in the riches that he ex-companions would be making in factories miles away from his new mansion. He could do it. He could manage. He was a Holmes, it was in his genes or something.  


Violet gave Mycroft another terse nod, pushing his shoulder gently so that he would face the stairs. She dropped her hands and pinched his palm between her fingers lightly, taking one, long deep breath. That was their signal to descend, descend into the nest of press that no doubt waited for them.  


Their shoes clicked hollow as they walked, clicked against pure, white marble. Mycroft took a sneaking glance at the chandelier hanging above them. It was still, it was calm - how did it manage? It had the ability to teeter wildly if it wanted to - why didn't it? But in watching the chandelier, that's when Mycroft caught the first flash of a camera.  


"Ms. Violet Holmes! This is one of your son's last - "  


"Mycroft, is it true that you've been avoiding volunteering for - "  


"What do you think of your brother's banishment, have you been in contact with him?"  


In the sea of flashes and battle of questions, that was all that Mycroft heard. Of course they were still asking about Sherlock - as long as he was still gone, they would always ask.  


"I still miss my brother," Mycroft said, as him and his mother stopped in the middle of the broad circle of press. "But he was accurately punished for what he had done. He was deserving of it. I haven't heard from him since he was banished, I couldn't have."  


The flashes resumed, and Mycroft dulled his ears to the harsh questioning of the reporters. He looked to his mother, who seemed to be perfectly content with answering every question posed to them. Mycroft only wanted to leave. He would rather stand in the pure, clean Lottery Hall then be silently judged on his every move by the press.  


"One of the terms for this day being used by the lower Districts is 'Reaping Day,' used to signify their 'Reaping' from their original Districts. Any comments on that?"  


Victoria nudged her son. The perfect soundbyte, the perfect quote, and he knew exactly what to say. He cleared his throat, letting the sarcasm drip down so it wouldn't be present in his voice anymore. He couldn't sound sarcastic, not in front of the press.  


"I don't believe the lower districts are thinking of this opportunity in the right way," Mycroft started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Lottery, the correct term, is so much of a better more accurate term. We're so lucky to be chosen, to fight in the name of the Capitol."  


With that, Violet squeezed her son's hand, pushing them through the hoard of reporters in order to get to the Lottery Hall on time.


	2. Chapter 2

Idris Tardis paced her bedroom. She was in a long, dark blue dress with eggshell lace on the ends, the bottom of the dress, the ends of the sleeves, and around her neck. It was itchy in places where her skin moved too much against the lace but the Doctor had told her to wear it. He said she looked nice. Sexy, his word was. 

"We need to go soon, Doctor!" Idris rolled her eyes. Of course he was taking forever. The man had all of the time in the world, and he took the time to take forever every day of his life. "If we don't get there in time, we're going to get in trouble!" 

"Idris, I swear to Rassilon, if you yell at me one more time - " 

"Doctor, I don't care!" Idris laughed, throwing her head back. Her dark brown curls bounced back against her shoulders. "You know we're supposed to be Reaped today, we have to - " 

The Doctor walked straight into Idris' room. He was in his blue suit, a red tie knotted to his neck. He had long since used his regenerative energy to appear 18, though Idris still wasn't used to it. She still had the instinct to go a quick double take every time she saw him again. Admittedly, not much had really changed. His laugh lines had thinned out, his chin was a little less defined, but his eyes had an extra sparkle, his smile was a little wider, his skin was a little softer. 

"I'm done, I'm ready." he laughed, running a hand through his hair. It was tousled upwards, just as it always was. He plucked his glasses from dangling over his blazer, sliding them on with a goofy grin. "And remember, I'm not the Doctor. I'm John Smith, remember?" 

"Yes, yes, _John_ ," Idris rolled her eyes, sliding her hand into the Doctor's. That was her favorite, his hand was softer; no longer calloused from years of travelling, of gripping the Sonic too hard, of throwing the physical TARDIS' doors open. "Now come on," she pulled into the hallway, dragging the Doctor behind her. "We have to get moving!" 

The Doctor grinned, pushing his glasses back onto the top of the bridge of his nose. 

District 6 was already parading down to the main stage at the Town Hall. Idris and the Doctor slipped into the stream seamlessly, still keeping ahold of each other's hands. They already knew they would be the ones to be Reaped, the TARDIS had shown them that. Or - the TARDIS in it's original, physical state. Idris wasn't as knowledgeable as the physical TARDIS was. A fact that she had always resented. As much as the both of them hated that they were going to be Reaped, sent to a fight to the death, they had no choice. 

Panem existed only in a realm parallel to the main dimension; not the Alpha dimension. That wouldn't normally have been a problem - there are plenty of parallel universes. But according to Gallifrey, Panem should never have existed. 

The Doctor had checked all of the books, the notes, the charts, anything he could. But there was nothing on Panem. It was a planet, a parallel, a universe that should never have existed. 

So the Doctor and his TARDIS found themselves right in Panem. What better way to solve a problem than dive right in? They had landed right in District 6, the transportation district of all places. After a few days of sneaking around to fix records, John Smith and Idris Tardis were official citizens of District 6 of Panem. 

And now it was Reaping Day. 

The Doctor looked to Idris as they approached the Town Hall. There were three white tables, each manned with a table cloth and one Peacekeeper, the Peacekeeper to check the bloodwork against the District's statistics. 

The two stopped, and each took a shuddering breath. "We should probably separate now," the Doctor said quietly, glancing up at the doors. Each one was meant for the boys and the girls to separate. That's not how they chose people; the Capitol had talking about it, Reaping one girl and one boy from each District instead of choosing from every single person together. They hadn't made a decision in time for the 22nd Hunger Games - so everything was going on as it had for 21 years. 

The Doctor brought Idris' hand to his lips, giving her a reassuring smile before scampering off to the table nearest the male's entrance. Idris sighed, watching as he walked before heading off towards one of the other tables. 

The peacekeeper grabbed her hand forcefully, spitting out what sounded more like an order than a question, "name." He squeezed her finger down onto an electronic pad. 

"Idris Tardis." Idris said, closing her eyes against the pain. No, it didn't hurt that much, but the stinging sensation would manage to stay with her for a long while. 

"18," the peacekeeper said, looking up to meet Idris' eyes for the first time. Idris nodded, but felt like shrinking into the ground. His eyes were thin, Idris was always afraid of the eyes of new species. They were always so judgmental. "To the left," the peacekeeper ordered, already holding his hand out to the next girl behind Idris. 

Idris shuffled forward, walking through crusty glass doors. Inside, the ground had been eaten away by nature; weeds and grass growing through linoleum tiles. There were clumps and patches of dirt from where worn feet had traipsed six too many times. Apparently the Capitol didn't qualify that as something that needed fixing. 

Idris looked around. The older children seemed to be grouping near the back of the room, separated by metal barricades near the stage and on the sides that formed an aisle between the men and the women. Idris carefully stepped to the very edge of the group of girls, near the side barricade. 

The room was filling up quickly, the youngest being the most tearful and the oldest being the most solemn. The youngest were the ones fidgeting with tear streaks, with tight clothes that didn't quite seem to fit them. The older ones were all done up nicely. Their hands were at their sides, either in tight fists or loose enough fingers that they curled slightly. But all of their mouths mirrored each other; tight lines threatening to burst at the slightest provocation. 

The air was tense, still. There was a group of rowdy 17-year-olds just coming in, but as soon as they positioned themselves exactly where they should be, they calmed down. Their chests tightened, their eyes narrowed, their fists clenched. They were all too familiar to this - too used to it. Idris felt her chest grow cold, a human reaction as she had found it. She didn't like it - but it was also something that she couldn't stop. 

The noise in the room calmed to a dull buzz as a man with dark hair that was laced with feathers, green lipstick and matching eyeshadow and a crisp, dark suit walked up on stage. He must have been the District 6 escort. Idris turned her eyes to look at the Doctor. He stood with a slight smile on his face, eyes glued to the escort. 

"Welcome to the Lottery for District 6 of the 22nd annual Hunger Games!" the escort beamed, and a few polite claps arose from some parts of the crowd. Idris didn't clap. She actually almost snorted - the 'Lottery?' How was that accurate, correct at all? This wasn't a treat or a gift. This was a Reaping - that was all. A Reaping to choose sacrifices. "My name is Falin Conan, though you all know me! I'm here with a wonderful gift from the Capitol!" Gift. What an inaccurate word. Humans are so...awkward. 

Falin traipsed back off the stage, and a video flickered to life against the back wall. Idris watched with terrible attention, her brows furrowing with concentration. 

"War, terrible war..." 

Idris and the Doctor knew the background of the Hunger Games. They had to -they figured everything out before they decided to do something about Panem. So what if it involved kidnapping a few Panem citizens for information; since the books had none. But to see the Capitol's point of view, this strange, twisted point of view was almost sickening. None of the footage was all that repulsing, other than a little bit of footage of a murder, but they were just so...twisted. Idris balled her fists loosely at her sides, waiting until Falin walked back up, his hands folded behind his back and a wide smile stretched across his face. 

"Great show, eh?" Falin beamed, his voice booming over the microphone. "How about a round of applause for the Capitol?" 

Amazingly, applause trickled in within the crowed until it crashed in a tidal wave. Idris gaped open-mouthed at them - how could they? How could they do this, they still had to hate the Capitol didn't everyone? Falin was charismatic, that was for sure...but... _the Capitol_... 

"I'd say it's time for the Lottery!" Falin cried as the applause began to die. "Peacekeepers, bring out the names!" 

Polite applause circled through the room again as two Peacekeepers carried out a plastic table, a large glass bowl resembling a fish bowl settled in the center. Slips of paper rustled around, and the crowd had begun to get antsy. Would they be the one to get Reaped? Idris sighed...no. It was only her. 

"Drum roll please..." a few of the previously-rowdy teenagers drummed their fingers on the barricade, and Falin smirked. He dove his hand deep into the bowl, fishing it around for dramatic effect. He pulled his hand out abruptly, holding it a few inches in front of his face. "John Smith?" he called out, his brows furrowed. He probably only didn't remember of hearing such a plain name, what with a name like Falin Conan. 

Murmurs were traded - no one remembered a John Smith. Had the Capitol messed up? There wasn't a John Smith in District 6. Idris turned slightly towards the Doctor. He had his hand around the top of the barricade, just before he bolted over it. He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders and looked directly at Falin. The Doctor took measured steps towards the front, and the murmurs only grew louder. 

"W-well, you must be John Smith," Falin said as the Doctor walked up directly next to him. 

The Doctor grinned and nodded. "That I am." 

Falin tried to wait for the crowd to have some sort of reaction, but there was nothing but silence. He cleared his throat and dug his hand deep into the bowl again, pulling out a slip of paper much quicker this time. No crowed reaction didn't make good Capitol television. 

"Idris Tardis?" 

Idris quickly pushed the barricade just next to her out of the way. She couldn't wait for the conspicuous lack of applause, the stares of confusion as no one recognized a name that they should. She walked up onto the stage, positioning herself just next to the Doctor. 

"How about a round of applause for your District 6 Tributes??" 

There was no applause.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean Winchester sat all of the way back in a hard-backed chair in a wooden lodge stationed near where he was Reaped. He was _supposed_ to be meeting with friends or family, anyone who would miss him. Sam was back in District 8 and 'friends' were few and far between. 

At 14, Dean was significantly unlucky. His third year in being in the Reaping, his first year in District 12, and he was off to the Hunger Games. Good for him. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. John, the other Tribute for 12, must have had a lot of people to talk to. The only logical reason that he was still sitting there. 

John Watson didn't seem like a proper Tribute, at least to Dean. He was a lanky kid, though older than Dean, and pretty quiet. He looked strong, but had never shown it. Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. He might as well get rid of John during the Cornucopia. Maybe his bravery and 'take-charge' attitude would be rewarded. 

Dean tapped his foot impatiently. Why was John taking so long? They could be off to the Capitol or something, off to spoil themselves with brief riches before charging off in the name of the Capitol to get themselves killed. Goodie. 

"Pacemaker!" Dean snapped at the Peacekeeper behind his room's door. He could hear the Peacekeeper tense and he smirked. Good, good. "How long've I been in here?" 

"Three and a half minutes," the Peacekeeper grunted, and Dean's brows furrowed. Three minutes? That wasn't right. It had to be at least twenty. Maybe an hour. 

"Don't sass me, peace." Dean sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and glaring at the door as if he was physically able to set it on fire. "Johnny boy's been taking _forever._ How long I been in here?" 

"Three and a half minutes, Winchester." the Peacekeeper grunted again, a hardness in his voice. "Little tip for your Mentor-less ass? Impatience is going to get you nowhere." 

Oh. Right. Dean had no Mentor. District 12 always fabulously failed in the Games - going out not quite in style. While Dean would have loved to change that, he was a District 12. With no Mentor. It was impossible. 

There was a knock on the door and Dean perked up. A visitor He didn't have any visitors. His family back in District 8 and he had yet to make friends in District 12 - who could it possibly be? 

"C-come in?" Dean stuttered, fidgeting in his seat. Was he at least presentable? He didn't care if it was some higher official, but maybe someone from school had come to pay their last respects? 

Dean sat back with a glare when John entered. John's eyes were wide as he tried to decide whether or not he should smile at Dean. He chose not to, eventually. 

"What are you doing here, Johnny?" Dean growled as John sat down in a chair in the corner. "This even legal? I don't want to get disqualified before I get to kill you." 

John shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. He had just wanted to say 'hi' to Dean - they had never really talked. Dean was a year younger than him, plus this was his first year in District 12. Well, now, probably the end of his first year, but still. He had always found Dean kind of...interesting. Not much was known about him, with him being new, and it wasn't even known why he had been sent to District 12. It was known that he was previously from 8, but that didn't really help. 

"It's not _illegal_ ," John raised his eyebrows, settling back in his chair. "And the peacekeeper let me in, so it should be fine." 

"Oh. Right. Pacemaker." Dean smirked in the general direction of where the Peacekeeper should have been. There was a slam against the wall, presumably from 'Pacemaker.' "Call him that, by the way. When you leave. Just say like...'bye, Pacemaker' or something." 

John laughed nervously, setting his palms on his knees and leaning forward. Such direct disrespect to a Peacekeeper, practically a government official. That was going to come back to bite Dean, he knew it. But John bit his lip, looking Dean up and down. Tousled brown hair swept just over his eyebrows and thin eyes that carefully carried such clouded emotion. Dean would make a good Tribute, John knew. Maybe even a Victor. 

"No, but why are you here?" Dean asked, adopting a scathing tone again. His voice picked and ripped against John's skin, hot sand on dry feet. John very nearly winced at it. "Here to admit your undying love to me before I have to bash your brains in?" 

John froze, choking back a stone in his throat. What? Undying love? Where did that come from? He wasn't even gay! Not that there was a problem with it, but was Dean... 

"N-no!" John stuttered, sitting back and moving to hold his hands up as if in some sort of defense. They didn't raise any higher than maybe an inch off of his lap. "I just...I wanted to talk to you. Since you're sort of my partner. In the Games. Y'know." 

"Your partner," Dean mocked, sitting back and crossing his arms. "I see. So what, are you going to expect me to run around the Games, building you defenses and catching you food and shooting other people through the head? That's not how this is going to work!" 

"That's not what I meant," John was in a mix of upset with Sean, angry at Dean, or just being generally hurt. "I just - you know what," John stood with a sigh. "Alright. We don't have to be friends or anything. I thought an alliance between us would be the easiest one to start. District 12 outcasts. But fine." 

Dean didn't say anything as John walked to the door. John's time was almost up anyway, Pacemaker would have been in any second to drag him out. John stood still with his hand on the doorknob before adding, "maybe I'll just go to your brother when we get to the Capitol." 

With that, Dean's head snapped up, but John had already taken a step out of the room. He stood, crossing the nearly empty room with three bounds, but the door clicked shut before he could get out of it. 

"Wait!" Dean called frantically, pressing forward and throwing the door open. "What the hell do you mean by that?! _WATSON!_ Get your ass back here!" 

Pacemaker stepped from the side of the door, shoving Dean back in the room with a hand on his chest. 

"Step back in the room, _sir_ ," Pacemaker spat, glaring at Dean through the black visor. Dean could feel it, though he couldn't actually see it. He fist instinctively clenched at his side. 

"District 8 Tributes - who are they?" Dean demanded, holding the door open with his left hand. Pacemaker was desperately trying to close it on him, but it wasn't budging. " _Who. Are. They._ " 

Pacemaker sighed, reaching down to pick a small digital screen from being clipped to his belt. Dean didn't know what it was, nor did he really care. He was too worried about District 8, about John's comment, about everything. Pacemaker pressed a few buttons and two faces with names in white lettering under them flew up on screen. Dean only saw a dash of dark red hair before Pacemaker turned the screen so he couldn't see. 

"A girl named Donna Noble, and a boy named..." Pacemaker trailed off and a wicked smile stitched it's way across his face. "And a boy named _Sam Winchester_."


	4. Chapter 4

Molly Hooper took a cautious step onto the silver bullet train. She was flanked on her left side by Castiel, the other Tribute from District 10. There had yet to be Victor for District 10 - so Molly and Castiel were guided onto the train car by a Peacekeeper. As soon as the two had their feet firmly in the car, the Peacekeeper nodded at the two of them and walked back off. 

Molly looked up to Castiel's face. It was expressionless, but not quite empty. He looked around the car, not even a nod of acknowledgement or a grunt of appreciation arising. He turned once, his tan coat billowing around him before he sat in an armchair near the refreshments. 

Molly sat down as well, a few seats away from Castiel. His eyes raked over the food, looking as if he would grab at it any moment - but he didn't. Molly opened her mouth as if to say something, but a sliding glass door opened to the Tributes' right. Both Castiel and Molly turned to face it. A woman with blue-tinted skin and long, dark hair walked out, smiling at both Molly and Castiel. The woman was Enopf Raimond, the District 10 escort. She beamed at both Molly and Castiel, though only Molly offered a wavering smile back. 

"Oh door pear, just 12 and chosen," Enopf tsked, sitting in one of the empty chairs between Castiel and Molly. "It'll be great though, dear, we'll treat you so well." 

"Why would you tell her that?" Castiel looked up with an apple in his hand. He seemed to have been examining it. Castiel's voice sounded almost like the calls of the mockingjay's, and Molly was surprised. It was a nice, calm voice for someone who had seemed so intense. "That can't be true, can it? It's going to be nice for ten days, and then we're going to the Hunger Games. That's not good for her, really, we're both going to - " 

" _Castiel!_ " Enopf barked, but she forcefully melted into a smile when she looked back to Molly. Molly seemed to be properly frightened by Castiel; slouched back in her seat, her long fingernails digging at the fabric of her chair. "It'll be fine, dear, this is was Training Days are for. You just have to find your niche. Promise." 

Castiel watched Enopf for a moment, his eyes furrowed. He sunk back into his seat. What good was it to tell Molly that everything was going to be fine? It wouldn't be. By design of the Hunger Games, neither of them would be fine. Castiel raised his head to look to Molly. She had already been watching him and she turned away, a red tint flying to her face. Why? 

Enopf looked between Castiel and Molly, having noticed the silent exhcange. District 10 raised a fair share of quiet, reserved Tributes. Tributes who didn't want to fight, didn't want to kill, who didn't want to die. But these two were extraordinary. How would she be able to sell them - they were only silence, barely even paying each other glances. She sighed and stood, moving as if she was going to go back to the other train car. 

"If you all need anything, I'll be right back there," Enopf gestured to the other car with a flickering smile; trying to decide which silent Tribute to focus on. "A little later, I'll show you your rooms for the night, yeah?" 

"That would be great," Molly sent a sincere smile as Enopf walked away. The escort was almost touched. 

With Enopf gone, Castiel reached for a pastry that was expertly settled onto a silver serving platter. He turned it around and around in his hand, examining it before reaching and taking a large bit of it. His eyes closed and his mouth drew into a smile, savoring the lone bite. 

"Never had a pastry before?" Molly offered, trying her best to get comfortable. She needed to be; comfortable with the train, comfortable with the Hunger Games, comfortable with Castiel. 

"I've never had the chance to have one," Castiel shrugged, taking another large bite of his pastry. "It's good though." There was only one bite of it left by the time Castiel was done speaking. "Have you ever had one?" 

Molly nodded. "Once. A shipment coming from District 12, from the Mellark family bakery stopped in 10. They didn't mean to, but while they were there some of the people from the Stalls grabbed a box from the train." 

Castiel looked away from his food and back at Molly. His mouth drew into a thin line. "You had money to buy from the Stalls?" 

"I had extra stuff to trade from the fields." Molly smiled, drawing her knees to her chest on the chair. She tucked them under her chin, wrapping her arms around her shins. "I don't go that often...but I do like to go." Molly's eyes widened with realization. "I guess I won't be going back there anymore." 

"You might," Castiel said as he sat all of the way up in his seat and folded his hands over his lap. "There's a chance." 

"Me?" Molly laughed, almost positive that Castiel was being sarcastic, though he didn't sound like it. He didn't sound like much, really. But she had to believe that he was being sarcastic. How else would that have made sense? "You can't be serious. I'm...I'm only 12. And I don't know how to do anything to help me. I can't... _kill_ people." 

Castiel shrugged, grabbing another pastry. "Don't do that to yourself. You never know." 

Molly thought about saying something, but she wasn't quite sure what. She could feel it though, that there was something to say. She only let out a thick sigh and pushed her chair back, standing quickly. 

"I'm going to go try and find my room, okay?" Molly nodded at Castiel. She waited for his reaction, his words, his anything. If they were going to be a team for the Games, they might as well act like it. 

"Alright." Castiel's eyes wavered from Molly's face, looking out of the window over her shoulder. His mouth was set - he wasn't going to say anything more. Molly took that as her signal to leave, and so she did. 

Molly walked back through the door that Enopf had walked through. There was a transition car, windows on either side and padded benches under them. With another sigh, she cautiously continued back a few more cars until she managed to find the car with the rooms. 

Within fifteen minutes, Molly was sprawled across her bed. The blankets were wrapped around her knees, her head propped up on her hands as she stared out of the window. 

It was beautiful, everything she saw. They didn't run through the Districts, but over the mountains and through the sloping valleys that bordered them. It was raining in the plains near District 7, and Molly traced her finger over the racing raindrops, wishing to run as fast as they did. Run back to District 10, back to the Stalls and the fields. Back to her lumpy bed and her friends. Though none of them came to saw goodbye, just after the Reaping. She figured that they were too upset to see her. 

It was dark as they reached District 6, but she had been told that 5 and 6 were the largest. Everyone knew the relative size of the DIstricts, even if they never got to see out of their home DIstrict. It was common knowledge. 

So when the lights flickered out in the transition cars, and all Molly could see in the sky was countless, beautiful stars she dug into a small chest next to her bed. She found a pair of green silk pajamas and changed into them, still watching the stars pass. As she heard footsteps pass, it occurred to her that she hadn't bothered to learn anything about the other Tributes. She dripped her remote from her bedside tightly, turning on the TV on the wall and turning it down until it was just barely audible. 

" - and he volunteered within two seconds of the escort having walked on stage! Mycroft Holmes is an incredibly eager young man!" That was Augustus Tate, one of the hosts of the Hunger Games, though it never once seemed to show. He turned to Natalya Scatern, his co-host. 

"This was one of his last years to ensure the legacy of his family was continued. And what do you think of his partner, Irene Adler?" 

Augustus' eyes glazes as a smile snuck onto his face. "A very pretty young woman. Honestly, she'll have sponsors all over her." 

"And District 2? Sebastian Moran and Lucifer Malin?" 

"Quite a striking team! Moran in particular looks like he knows a good thing or two about his weapons. Maybe they'll be lucky enough to get decent weapons at the Cornucopia!" 

Natalya sat back, reading over the list of names on a sheet of paper in her hands. "Oh, Gus, you're gonna love this one! District 3 - James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes!" 

Augustus grinned, slapping both of his hands down on the table in front of him. "Yes! Two brothers facing each other in the Hunger Games - Holmes brothers, nonetheless! That should be a _fantastic_ match-up. Plus it's not the only sibling - " 

Natalya held up her hand, cutting Augustus off. "We'll get there! District 4, Jack Harkness and Sally Sparrow?" 

"Jack Harkness seems to be quite a striking young man, and according to the locals he's quite the hard-worker. Sally...on the other hand...unfortunately I'd have to say she seems just like any other Tribute." 

"Don't count her out just yet!" Natalya's look to Augustus could only be likened to a glare, but not quite. "You and I both know how surprising Tributes can be. District 5 - Harold Saxon and Rose Tyler." 

"Harold seems...well, I dunno, he just seems a little off to me." Augustus laughed, but it was only nervous. Harold must have actually gotten to him somehow. "He'll...well don't quote me on this, but he should be a master of these Games." 

"There you have it, folks," Natalya laughed, though it could be likened to nervousness as well. "A prediction from Augustus Tate himself. But we still have seven more Districts. District 6 has John Smith and Idris Tardis." 

"Who got absolutely no applause from their District!" Augustus was excited again, his fear from Harold having apparently entirely vanished. "No reaction, no applause, _nothing_! Especially for a semi high-ranked District like District 6, that it...that's just downright _strange_!" 

Natalya nodded, quickly moving on. "District 7, Mickey Smith and Bobby Singer?" 

Augustus rolled his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. "Forgettable. Completely forgettable. Especially Mickey, I mean, District 12 should manage to take him down." 

"8 - Donna Noble and Sam Winchester?" 

Augustus lit up again, his fingers clutching at the edge of his desk. "Here's where the start of the other brotherly rivalry begins, with Sam! Do you know why his brother is down in 12...?" 

"Actually, I don't." Natalya looked off-camera, as if to one of her produced, but she didn't manage to get any answers. "I know he was banished there directly by the Capitol, but other than that..." 

"A mystery then." Augustus smiled, relaxing slightly. "Good. Every Games needs a good old-fashioned mystery. What's next?" 

"Ehrm...District 9 with Sally Donovan and Andrew Anderson." 

Augustus rolled his eyes again, but this time seemed to be much more lighthearted about it. "The Anderson kid...he doesn't quite seem to have all his screws quite tight enough. Did you - did you see that speech he tried to make on-stage?" 

Natalya burst into a fit of giggles. "Y-yeah. We'll show that again...after the District recap. So, uh-uhm...District 10 with Castiel Angai and Molly Hooper?" 

"Oh my god, I feel terrible for Ms. Hooper. She's the only 12-year-old in the games this year...such a sweet girl. May the odds be ever so in her favor." 

Molly nearly teared up at this. She clenched her blanket in her fists and stared, unblinking at the television. At least she had the media on her side. 

"Good luck to you, Molly Hooper." Natalya nodded, preparing to move on. "District 11, Martha Jones and Gregory Lestrade." 

"This may be our underdog District! We haven't seen Training yet, but they seem like very strong, well-minded Tributes." 

"And last but of course not least, District 12 with John Watson and Dean Winchester." 

"Sam and Dean!" Augustus chorused, a grin widening. "Second pair of brothers! First year with siblings, and we have two sets! But that John Watson, he - " 

Molly grabbed the remote, thrusting the TV off and skidding the remote across her nightstand. She was done. The announcers had written off half of the Tributes, if not more. It was as if they were only game pieces, cardboard images propped up on plastic stands. 

She sunk into her bed, curling up on her side. She brought the blanket up until it touched the tip of her nose and Molly Hooper closed her eyes. 

With morning would come the Capitol.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes walked into the Tribute Hotel, shaking his head from the pounding in his ears. He had had a headache since the moment he stepped onto the bullet train. Everything was so loud, and the other Tribute from his District was so talkative, and he would kill for a cigarette. 

"Isn't this _marvelous_?" Gina Trinket, his District's escort squealed as Sherlock took his first few steps into the Hotel. The lights were too bright. Every smile was too tight. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Sure, it's perfectly marvelous if you enjoy this lovely lie." Sherlock stood still, looking around for a moment. "They can't expect us to actually believe all of this, do they?" 

Gina was stopped, her eyes widened. There had never been such a...skeptical Tribute before. When Sherlock's name had been called, she nearly burst of excitement. A _Holmes_ , a Holmes was _hers_. That could be a free ride to District 1 for the next year - with Career Tributes and winners and _real Mentors_. 

But Sherlock was nothing but everything she hadn't expected. He was unamazed by everything. He seemed to know too much. He had not once cracked a smile and his hands were constantly trembling; how was she supposed to sell a Tribute with a tic? 

"Aw come on, Sherly, lighten up!" Jim, the other Tribute grinned and gripped onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock froze. This was the fifteenth time in an house that Jim had touched him. The third within the last seven minutes. 

Sure, Jim was young. But there was a difference between being young and so blissfully innocent and being... _Jim_. Sherlock grabbed his arm out of Jim's grasp, leaving it tight at his side. 

"I bet we can win!" Jim said, beaming. His eyes were bright, and they danced around the room. He must have been as overwhelmed with the place as every other moron seemed to be. "We can do it Sherly, you and me!" 

Sherlock stopped walking again, and Gina backed away. She had seen the look on his face before. Right before he had torn one of his own Mentors apart, one of his only three Mentors. Said Mentor, Rhynite, vowed not to be working with Sherlock as all. Jim was fine, but not Sherlock. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, "James, you are a thirteen-year-old boy with a significantly lower IQ than I. You have been astounded by everything you've seen so far, even if it's something we've been taught about in school. That will prove to be a weakness as you're sniveling over the wonders of the Arena, three people will have shot you with arrows and one will have stabbed you. I don't need or want you as a partner." 

Jim blinked. For a moment, Sherlock was unsure. Were Jim's feelings even affected, had he even heard him? Or was he just standing stone cold, a monologue that had torn a grown woman to pieces not having any effect on a thirteen year old boy? 

"Alright," Jim shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Who was this - a boy's blissful innocence lost in thirty seconds? "Fine. I guess we'll be competitors then, Sherly. If that's what you want. Although, I think you would probably rather I be on your side. Are you sure, then? You don't want my help?" 

"Positive," Sherlock snarled, though he wasn't so sure now. Jim was different, and different quickly. This Jim could be of use. The other one was worthless though, and who was to say which one Sherlock would get? 

"Alright," Jim extended his hand to Sherlock. 'Time to play then, Sherly. My Games start now." 

Sherlock refused to shake Jim's hand. He couldn't, apparently now he already had an enemy. That wasn't new, he was used to people not liking him. But this was an enemy that could end up causing his death. 

Sherlock spun until he was facing Gina, who was standing with her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised. Impressed. Impressed with the 13-year-old that stood up to Sherlock Holmes. He resisted rolling his eyes. 

"Show us our floor," he said quickly, eyes flicking to the elevator. More and more press were being allowed in, and more Districts were showing up. He saw a boy with glasses and a girl with frizzed hair - District 6. Sherlock recognized them from the TV. They had been labeled as the most outgoing Tributes and he would be damned if he would be forced to talk to them. 

"Of course," Gina nodded, moving until she was in the center of Jim and Sherlock, leading them to a large, overly-plush elevator; one of the three that the Hotel had. "District 3 shares the third floor with District 4, and that goes the same with Districts 1 and 2 and Districts 5 and 6. The other Districts get their own floors - but don't worry about that too much! Your suite is still tremendously luxurious. Oh! And the fifth floor is more of a lounge, no one District owns it. You all can mingle there if you'd like...but not many people do." 

Gina was cut short by the elevator opening, and Sherlock immediately stepping out. His head was throbbing at this point and he had to get away from Gina and Jim as quickly as he could. 

The elevator opened on a large Dining Hall with three long tables down the center of a white-tiled room, six chairs on either side of them. Beyond the Dining Hall was a walled-off room, still large for any one use but smaller than the Hall itself. It seemed to be the general sitting room. On either side of the sitting room were two grand staircases, apparently leading up from the bedrooms. 

"You can - " Gina had started, but Sherlock didn't hear. He fled through the Dining Hall and up the leftmost staircase, only hoping that that was the side that District 3 was supposed to have. The floor that Sherlock arrived on was divided again, but only twice. He was standing on a foyer before he slammed open the door on the right and walked in, slamming the door closed behind him. 

The room, in fact, was very luxurious and lavish. It was large, probably a little larger than the sitting room. There was a large bed pushed up against a metallic wall, with a frame that could be remotely adjusted. The wall that the bed faced was a large screen, a screen that seemed like it could be turned on to wither different, varying scenes or to Capitol television. The remaining wall, the wall that Sherlock was still facing, had a set of three stairs leading down to a tiled floor, a set-in hot tub on one side. A few more steps led to a glass door which opened to a stretched balcony. 

Honestly, Sherlock cared about none of it. This room would be the room that he slept in when he needed it, and nothing more. Everything else was extra, too much for him. Sherlock kicked his shoes off, leaving them by the door and throwing himself on the bed, burying his face in his pillow. 

He wanted to scream. He needed to scream. No cigarettes for over a day. Travelling on that train with Him, Gina, Rhynite, Skiven and Koltisv. Granted, it wasn't a long ride. Hours, really. He could only be happy that he wasn't from District 12; which would have been a two day ride. 

Sherlock lifted his head just slightly, looking out of the glass door. The sun was still gleaming off of the Capitol, crowds of people gathering any place that they might be able to catch a glimpse of a Tribute. In the distance, he could see one or two more trains barrel against the horizon of the Capitol, the sun catching on their roof tops. 

It was all so hateful, so fake. Any imbecile could see that. That's why he would be getting up at some ungodly hour in the morning, so he could be done up, his hair probably cut off, his fingernails trimmed, just for the Tribute Parade. In which he would also be wearing some ridiculous representation of his District - that wasn't even really his District. At least not his home district. 

Sherlock sat up suddenly. The room was too small. Everything was too close. He stood and nearly flew to the balcony, leaving his fingertips lingering over the glass. 

The crowd below the Hotel was enormous, there was barely room to walk, even for the Tributes. A girl with platinum blonde hair and a boy with dirty-blond hair were making their way in. The boy seemed to be twitching, ticking along with the smile on his face. The girl was frightened, that was obvious to Sherlock, but not to anyone else. To anyone else, she seemed like the strongest competitor that had arrived. 

_Rose Tyler, Harold Saxon,_ Sherlock repeated in his head. He would have to learn these names and faces very well. He would have to learn their weaknesses and their strengths - everything about them. If there was anything he knew, he knew that any little idea about a person could be the thing that tore them apart. _District 5._

Sherlock slid the door open silently, and padded out onto the balcony. It was covered with a roof, so he could only see the sky if he looked out over the horizon. The sun was still high, but not as if it was blazing. It was just making it uncomfortable; but not for Sherlock. He hoisted himself up onto the railing, until his legs were dangling and he was seated on the railing itself. No one seemed to notice him, or otherwise care. He was content watching everyone, his knuckles tight on the railing on either side of him. 

"Oi! You're gonna get yourself hurt 'fore the Games even start!" 

Sherlock rolled his head upwards. A few floors above him was a girl with flame red hair, glaring at him. She was leaning over the railing until her hair was cascading down either side of her face. _Donna Noble_ , Sherlock remembered. _District 8._

"That'd just be to your advantage, wouldn't it?" 

Donna huffed, rolling her eyes and looking back over her shoulder back where her suite would have been. "Sammy! C'mere! Come look at this moron!" 

Moron. Sherlock scoffed. He was nothing of the sort. He knew how to sit here without seriously injuring himself, and given his circumstances, suicide really wasn't all that bad of an option anyway. He wouldn't actually do that though. He knew he had some sot of chance in the games. 

A boy with long brown hair joined Donna at the railing, and he leaned over it as well. He smiled a little at Sherlock, and Sherlock was almost grateful that Sam didn't say anything about him sitting there. 

"Hullo, Sam," Sherlock slurred, swinging his feet some. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?" 

Sam's nose wrinkled at the word. "Sorry, no. Not those old things. Haven't seen them at the Edge for years." Sherlock ran through his knowledge of the Districts. The Edge was District 8's black market. 10 had the Stalls and 12 had the Seam. "Think I saw one of the others with 'em though." 

Sherlock could almost feel the smoke in his nostrils. "Who was it?" 

"Moran." Sam nodded, crossing his arms on the railing and resting his chin on them. "From District 1, I think?" 

"2." Sherlock said, already swinging his legs off of the railing until he was standing flat on the balcony again. "He's from 2. Where'd you last see him?" 

"Fifth floor." 

Without even a thank you, Sherlock tore back through his suite, dashing to get his shoes back on. He raced down the stairs and out of District 3 and 4's suite, ignoring the concerned calls from Gina. 

Two of the elevators were in use, but the third was fetched by Sherlock quickly enough. He slammed his thumb down on the button marked with a spindly '5,' and the elevator flew off, Sherlock breathing a deep sigh of relief. 

Sherlock watched the little red, digital number above the door tick upwards, going from 2 to 4 agonizingly slowly. He drummed his fingers on the wall, biting his lip, until it paused on level 4 for a minute too long. 

"Come on!" Sherlock slammed the side of his fist against the door, peeling it back when the door slid open against it. The girl that Sherlock had seen earlier walked in, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. 

"Hello," Rose said as she made her way to the back of the elevator. She kept her eyes from meeting Sherlock's, looking either far below him or directly over his shoulder. "5th floor." 

Sherlock jabbed the 'close door' button on the elevator, the door closing after a minute. He retreated back to the corner that Rose hadn't taken. 

"Sherlock Holmes, right?" Rose finally looked up, but she still didn't look Sherlock in the eyes. Sherlock nodded. She wasn't worth any more, and especially not any words. "Not gonna talk. Right. Sorry." 

An apology? Sherlock looked up to Rose, brows furrowed, but the elevator had stopped. She headed for the door before it had even opened and stepped out. 

The fifth door was large, a large glass wall making up the furthest most wall.There were two rooms sectioned off, apparently for privacy, but otherwise it was completely open. There were plush chairs everywhere, with lush red-brown carpet paired with yellow-brown walls. The five televisions all showed constant re-runs of the Capitol's coverage of Reaping Day. Sherlock stepped entirely out of the elevator - still partially confused at Rose. He noted the various things around the room meant for entertainment, but dismissed them just as quickly. 

"Sebastian Moran..." he muttered under his breath. He had to find him, forget about Rose Tyler and her awkward, strange interactions. He scanned over the room. He saw both the girl and boy from 4, Rose, the boy from 10 and both of the boys from 12. But no Sebastian Moran. That was as close as he had gotten to - 

One of the doors to the sectioned off rooms opened, and he saw Sebastian Moran. Sherlock grinned, about to go after Moran, until he noticed Sebastian's hands. His fingers were entangled with Moriarty's, albeit loosely, but as Moran and Moriarty made their way as if they were going to be passing Sherlock's path, Sherlock panicked, flinging himself towards the nearest group of people. He didn't want to seem as if he had been up there for no reason. Which, without Sebastian's cigarette's in his hands, that's all it seemed like. 

He ended up sitting on a couch with the boys from 12. Both of them turned to him quickly, more than confused. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Moran and Jim; Jim at that point looking as if he was talking about Sherlock. 

"Talk to me, just talk to me," Sherlock hissed, turning back to the boys. "As if I've been sitting here for a while." 

"What, are you crazy? Dean sat forward in his seat, looking around John who was the closest to Sherlock. "What are you - " 

John cut Dean off. He did his best to follow Sherlock's orders, even if they were hazy at best. "Did you see that Anderson kid's speech?" 

Sherlock grinned at John. He couldn't be more thankful than he was for John actually listening to him. "I saw it on the train up here," Sherlock replied, aware that Moran and Moriarty seemed to be coming closer. "I feel kind of sorry for his District." A lie. But conversation nonetheless. 

Dean looked once between John and Sherlock, still confused, but not wanting to be left out of a conversation. "I don't! Gives 12 a chance!" 

Of course. That's why John had been so willing to help; Sherlock was a Holmes and from 3. Even if 3 was poor, it was far from the lowest. John thought of him as superior - that was nice. A good feeling, being superior to someone. 

"Well, my mother probably had Mycroft completely prepared for these Games." Sherlock rolled his eyes, relaxing back into the sofa. He draped one arm over the back of it, and rested his right ankle on his left knee. "You might not - " 

"Well, hello Sherly," Moriarty walked up with Moran at his side. "Haven't rethought what I said earlier, have you?" 

Moran was tense at Jim's side, he had to be 16 or 17 to Jim's 13. Even so, he seemed to be taking his obvious subordination well. 

"Whatever do you mean, Jim?" Sherlock had to play innocent. He knew that his intelligence would end up helping him He had already shown it off. He had to start undoing his mistakes. "I was just talking to John and Dean about the boy from Nine, he should be a - " 

"Yes, yes, I don't need to hear that nonsense," Moriarty rolled his eyes, flicking a hand at Sherlock. "I'll be off then. Leave you to be bored." 

With that, Jim turned, keeping Moran at his side. Sherlock glared at Moriarty's back before facing John. "Thank you. Big help, really. Believe me." 

"Sherlock, right?" John offered with a small smile and nod. 

"That's me. Sherlock Holmes, District 3."


End file.
